


Painted Faces, Sharpened Knives

by dorkatron_3000



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Clone AU, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Semi-graphic violence, Unhealthy Relationships, au where selina and alfred leave gotham after shes shot, but with these two ships are you really surprised, everything you'd expect with the twins really, he isnt The Jerome but hes still a lovable chaotic bitch, i am so sorry for how much i abandoned this fic, jeremiahs a bitch but thats why we love him, jerome is a clone, sort of? it’s still problamatic as fuc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkatron_3000/pseuds/dorkatron_3000
Summary: Jerome Valeska was murdered, brought to Indian Hill, transferred, smuggled, brought back to life, wreaked havoc, locked in Arkham Asylum, busted out, wreaked havoc again, then fell off a building and died for good.Except, when he died, he left behind two things to secure his legacy and continue his life's work of chaos.One, his brother Jeremiah, sprayed by a specially brewed gas, causing him to fall into a deep obsession with Bruce Wayne, who Jerome knew all about.And two, the clone Indian Hill had created from him, inserted his memories into, failed to keep locked up, and given an obsession with leadership, who Jerome knew nothing about.This was going to be fun.





	1. Not Quite Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaythom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaythom/gifts).



> Meet Jeclone, your average joe who was casually made from the cells of a dead murderer and is also desperate for love.
> 
> Y'all this took so much time, and it never would have happened without gaythom, who encouraged me the entire way and inspired me to aCtuAlly wriTE. She came up with this concept with me anD has a great fic for those of you aching for some brother-on-brother-on-mutual-love-interest-loving. Its so good, go have fun with it. 
> 
> Edit: y’all I’ve changed the future chapters to ?, sorry to anyone who exclusively wanted a two-parter.

A bus filled with the chaos and joy of dozens of prisoners raced to Gotham City, and Jerome Valeska's laughter sounded out above all. He was leaving behind Indian Hill and finally returning to his home. The monsters and experiments surrounding him would be the dawning of a new age where anarchy ruled Gotham, and insanity would be the key to survival. He planned to tear open the eyes of every citizen who dared turn away from the truth of living. His re-energized life promised adventure and havoc where he sat back and watched the show. 

Jerome considered what he would do first once the bus finally stopped. He could terrify some locals, let them know what they were missing. How about a bank robbery? High risk, high reward, and the promise of danger. He could murder some low-lives; oh, that'd be plain ol’ fun. And what about the stab-and-grab! Well, he’d end up crossing that bridge when he burned the town down. So many futures raced through Jerome’s mind. He felt like a Mockingjay about to be released from his cage for the first time in years.. 

Ha, jay. His brother used to call him Jay. Or did he use to call him something else? Did he even have a brother? The answer didn't really matter. Jerome didn't care. Memories got jumbled sometimes. Just made things more interesting. Everyone knew Jerome loved—

In the snap of a neck, screams of joy turned to screams of terror as the bus crashed head-on. Jerome was yanked to the side, and his head rammed into the window. Woo wee, that one promised to leave a bump. He opened his eyes and realized something was very, very wrong. The whole world spun like a carousel out of control. Colors mixed and collided and Jerome was pretty sure he was in a Jackson Pollack painting. Rhythmic drums beat in his head mercilessly, digging deep into his skull. The pain made Jerome wheeze in laughter. 

With a dazed smile, he combed his fingers through his hair. They came back red. The blood, pure and thick. In fact, it looked like the stuff Fluffy painted his walls with before the doc took him away. Maybe blood made a good medium. Jerome faced the red-tinted window he'd slammed into. His senses were slowly coming back to him. He managed to wipe two fingers on his head once more and traced three lines onto the window. Two straight down and a curvy one underneath. A smiley face. Jerome tossed his head back with a pained cackle. 

He heard some commotion to his right and decided the fun was over. Jerome turned to the aisle, but let out a puff of air as a gigantic monster—Orca or something—fell on him. His head banged against the window. Again. This time though, the blood poured from his wound onto his neck and down his shirt. A damn bullet would be nothing compared to his new stinging, burning pain. In a confusing flash of light and dark, Jerome saw himself falling to the ground. Being pushed and yelled at. He came back to the bus and felt his whole face twitch.

Orca scrambled off of Jerome as quickly as someone her size could. She looked like an orca. A bit on the nose, if you asked Jerome. Her deep voice slowly explained what had happened, but Jerome didn't hear a word of it. To be truthful, he chose not to listen. Jerome wanted to do anything but listen.

He climbed to his feet, smacking his drawing behind him and smearing it. The smoke from the bus choked him but only helped his smile grow. He always did enjoy a bit of pain. Jerome’s eyes met Orca’s concerned ones. His hands shook on their own accord and one wrapped itself around her throat. She slapped at his hands, but her attempts did nothing to make him release her. The doc may have been a spineless coward, but Jerome couldn't complain about his new-and-improved grip. 

“Watch your step, sweetheart,” he seethed, squeezing harder, “Or you might find yourself without those funny little flippers of yours.” His smile turned to a baring of teeth. Orca’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. 

Jerome sighed, barely able to compose himself. “You wanna get out of this tumble with me?” 

She nodded like her life depended on it. How pathetic. He drew close to her and whispered. "Now, I know you probably wouldn't think it, but I'm really not all that powerful. Mommy didn't get me enough milk to make me big and strong. However, it looks to me as if you've been chugging calcium, so do you mind clearing the way for me?" 

He grabbed her neck with his free hand and squeezed harder. Her lips parted, gasping, choking on her own humongous throat. "And don't think that's a request," he growled.

Jerome backed away from her face but kept his hands tightly wrung around her neck. “So, what do you say, Flippers? Help a poor little orphan boy out?”

The monster mumbled out an incomprehensible sound, and Jerome released her. She took in an over-the-top breath, rubbing her flippers on her neck. The sound grated against his ears as if they were nails on a chalkboard. Or police sirens. He knew the cops would come soon enough. They always ruin the fun. Similar to the whining child he'd graciously allowed to live.

“Don't be a baby; it was only a love tap,” Jerome mocked. Flippers' jaw dropped in disbelief. “Well, come on, lead the way,” he said with a nod at the emergency exit in the back. Flippers stopped her rubbing and started walking to the back. She toppled a man with pointy ears, glancing at Jerome to ensure her safety. Jerome rolled his eyes and entered the aisle. With a wave of his hand, he sent Flippers back on her mission. 

The science experiment gone-wrong pushed people over left and right. Mumbles of pain and belligerence surrounded them. Jerome laughed when a woman with fiery hair banged her head against a window. Talk about deja vu.

Orca jumped out from ahead of Jerome, and—oh. They made it. That was fun. Jerome strutted towards the door, ready to see the world. Orca stood in front of him. Her flippers were crossed in front of her like a good, respectful servant. Jerome stuck his foot out, gravity pushing him towards the ground.

Yet something held him back. He couldn't abandon all those people without a proper goodbye. He was one of the greatest monsters Hugo Strange ever fostered, and he was going to disappear without a word? That struck the wrong chord with Jerome. That would be out of character. The doc did always say he put on a wonderful show.

Inspired and prideful, Jerome whipped around to face the crowd of inmates waiting for him. He heard a groan from behind him and frowned. There went respectful. He ignored her for the sake of his audience. An ordinary-looking experiment in front of Jerome clicked her tongue obnoxiously. She was rather big, he noticed. Perfect.

He shot her a charming smile and waggled his fingers. “Hiya, yes, I’ll be needing you for a hot sec. Wanna get on your knees for me?” he said with a wink. No reaction. Jerome squinted at her and tilted his head. “Get down on the ground, miss.” 

The girl started to click aggressively. At this point, he didn't even care. Jerome didn't have the patience to care about whatever the hell she was doing. He kicked her in the shin and down she went. He sent another kick to the jaw. Out like a light. 

He stepped onto her back and looked out at the crowd of a few dozen inmates. They were jumpy, pounding on each other to get farther up on the line. In the front, there was definitely an unconscious body. Or maybe dead. Jerome could respect a little selfish murder. Freedom is wanted by all and taken from you if you don't act on your animal impulses. Wait a second. That was a good line. Someone should write his words down. Now, to act.

He shoved his two bloody fingers into his mouth and let out a whistle. The chaos in front of him came to a dramatic stop. A man in the front stopped mid-punch. He looked like he was straight from a cartoon. Jerome cackled loudly into the air and spread his arms. This was where he had always thrived.

“Beasts and failures, good evening! I have got a special treat for you tonight." He pointed randomly at the crowd. "Now, I know what you're thinking. 'Get this loony outta here. I wanna be a free monstrosity.' I'd be thinkin' the same thing, but we have to remember why we're all here. Our buddy freedom isn't for simply meeting Gotham. This fantastic opportunity given to us is about using our freedom to make Gotham fall to its knees." The crowd nodded their heads, looking at each other with electricity. The fights stopped almost completely. Jerome smiled wider. They were his. "We've been locked up for too long. For weeks, months, years we've waited to see our beloved city. Our potential has been squished into a few tiny cells. Indian Hill made us complacent with only seeing this horrible island and doing nothing with it." Jerome laughed. His head thumped. 

"No. There is more to us than imprisonment. We are beyond human. The citizens of Gotham should fear what we can do. Yet, outside of this bus, everything is hunky-dory for those good-doers. This city doesn't know we exist. But we can change what they know. Tonight, we show them that the monsters under their beds have been real all this time. Now we give 'em a show they'll never forget!" Jerome pointed his hands at the sky like guns. He was free, he was free, finally free. 

But if Jerome was so free, why did he feel trapped? Why did his whole performance seem like a ruse? His entire life he loved the stage. The comfort of a dozen eyes on him was his only inspiration for years, yet the attention hit him wrong. The cheering and the shouting were too much. Doc was supposed to lead the show and Jerome only follow. Well, a long time had passed since he was top dog, maybe there was an adjustment period. He probably rocked his appearance in there. Yeah, adjustment. It took him a while to get used to life after Miah left.

Miah. That was the brother. He thought he had mixed feelings, but a lotta happy. Miah was big for him; something inside him knew it. He'd have to find him after he left this joint. Kinda funny how he didn't remember him much. Jerome shook his head and cleared his thoughts. This popsicle stand needed blowing.

"Its been fun folks!" Jerome shouted to the crowd that he thought might be his. "But I gotta skedaddle. Adios muchachos!" He spun around—an impressive task when you're standing on someone, if Jerome did say so himself—and hopped off the clicker. He bent over and looked between his legs to see the unconscious girl. "Thank you for your service, ma'am."

Flipping right back up, Jerome walked out of the bus like he owned the damn thing. And, know what? Something inside him said he did own it. The people loved him, or seemed to at least. They supported him. Jerome's cocky grin softened. 

"You're welcome, by the way," came the voice of a certain water mammal. Jerome slowly turned back around to Flippers, looking crazily moody for him having saved her life. Sure, her off-putting shark features made her a little hard to read, but her voice did the trick. She was an ungrateful little brat. He should have killed her back there when she dared get in his face. No random stranger did what they liked with him.

Jerome's smile disappeared from his face with a low hiss. "What was that, you seaweed munching freak? I don't think I caught your words exactly." He stalked closer to her, coming only feet away. "Because I'm sure you wouldn't sass me after what I did for you."

"What you did for me?" Flippers scoffed. "You threatened to kill me." 

"But did I? No. You should be thanking me. I never let idiots go after they—"

A rubber _smack_ against Jerome's face. He reached for the left side of his face. She wanted to die. That's what this was. She was begging for him to take her by the neck and end her rebellious life.

"I will let you know," she started, "I was a respected scientist at Indian Hill before this happened to me. I have a Masters in marine biology and two PhDs. Not a single person in Gotham would call me an idiot, especially compared to you." 

Jerome wanted to slit her throat and watch her bleed out on the cracked asphalt. Instead, he hissed. This stranger. Calling him an idiot. "What do you mean, sugar plum?" Jerome gritted out, still holding his face.

"Oh, you can't be serious. What are you, twenty? The only thing you have to your name is a few murders. I had a friend in psychology, and he said that murderers are often insecure in their own lives, so they take other's. That, and they're abused by their parents. Sounds about right for you and your milk. Do you have mommy issues, Jerome?" Flippers leaned right into Jerome's face. His teeth two inches from her snout. He could bite her. He could kill her.

As Jerome lowered his hand from his face, balling it into a fist, the blare of police sirens rang out. Not tonight. He'd have to shoo her off for now. "Run," Jerome growled, keeping eye contact with the monster. "Run, and never let me say your face again." 

"Or else what?"

Jerome couldn't resist grabbing her by her neck. Putting her in the same position he controlled. Smiling like he sported a crown of bones. And his strategy worked. Flippers' blank black eyes darted to the bay and back to him rapidly. He smelled her fear. "Or else I'll go into that bus and tell them you ratted them out to the cops. You think those loonies will love you then? Personally..." Jerome chuckled, deep and dark. "I think they'd chop you up and make sushi for dinner. Ah, but that's just me. You can bet your life on their behavior if you want. Its your choice, sweetcheeks. Are you ready to leave?"

Flippers nodded, choking out yes over and over again. He pushed her backwards, releasing her towards the bay. "Go on then," Jerome said. "Swim away little fishy." 

“Don't forget me, Jerome Valeska. I won't be forgetting you.” She touched her neck before turning around and racing for the water. Stepping over the short railing, Flippers raised her hands into a diving position. In the light of the cloud-covered moon, she dived through the air and into Gotham Bay. Jerome contemplated her for a second before erasing Flippers from his mind.

The police sirens were getting louder, and Jerome knew he had to go. He skipped across the bridge, giggling to himself every time the thought of success fluttered into his mind. He'd call the last hour a victory on his part. A couple dozen powerful beasts loved him, he had an enemy to keep him company, and the wind blew through his hair for the first time since forever ago. Jerome really didn't appreciate the wind as much as he should have. The piercing cold, the erratic path, and its uncontrollable nature all called to Jerome. The wind was everything that Jerome was supposed to be. 

God, when did he get so poetic? He needed to get some fucking food. Yeah, food. The last good food he had was from rich-man Theo, and Jerome left for greener pastures at Indian Hill a long time ago. Sure, Theo was nice to tell him about Doctor Strange but damn, did he miss good eating. He'd never eaten quality food in his life before the Maniax. 

Jerome's musings were interrupted by the speeding police cars swinging onto the bridge. Knowing that to let them see him meant a renewed stay at Arkham Asylum, he started power-walking, encompassing every middle-aged lady he'd ever seen. He only had to cross the bridge before he could disappear into the darkness of the alleyways. He remembered how his followers had always copied his every move, and Jerome glanced back to check for inmates. Two people were sprinting in his direction.

Time to put the pedal to the metal. Jerome abandoned his power-walking and bolted for the city. He needed to get in before the others. They would attract too much attention, and attention was the last thing Jerome needed. After another glance, he saw that the police had surrounded the bus. Jerome refocused on the city ahead but swore he heard growls and screams behind him. 

He picked up speed. The police couldn't know he was back. They'd search for him, and everything would be ruined. Jerome wanted to do something with his time, not run from the cops 'till the end of time. He was so close. He would escape the inmates, the cops, the pressure. He'd make it. He was free, just like he said on the bus. He was escaping; he was going to make it. Only a few yards left, and he'd become one with the city. Two yards... there was the alleyway he'd take... One yard... it was right there....

His opening came into view, and he dashed into the empty street. Jerking his head around to search for a brief refuge, he spotted a tipped garbage can. Not ideal, but it would have to do. Jerome charged the can and backed into it so he could watch the inmates pass. He hoped the dark would hide him from the spare monsters surely hoping to find some guidance. 

After what felt like an hour but was realistically probably only a minute (Jerome determined that his first mission was to steal a watch), a gaggle of people walked by. They were of all different sizes and maybe even bright colors. A couple laughed hysterically. They reminded him far too much of himself. 

Anger bubbled inside of him thinking that they stole _his_ trademark. People can't steal things from Jerome Valeska without paying a price. But, his good sense, though he did not have much, held him back. Patience was key. He'd have to wait in this nasty garbage can for a minute more, and then he could go out and kill someone. 

His good sense was right. The group, which Jerome realized had definitely grown while he convinced himself of ripping out their throats with his teeth, moved along. When he was sure they were at least a block away, he climbed out of the can. He shook his arms and legs and anything else covered in goop. He refused to think about what exactly had gotten caught in his hair. 

He walked calmly to the main street and strolled down the sidewalk. With the night he'd had, he deserved a peaceful midnight walk. Who knew when the next time he'd be able to relax would be? The night was cold, Gotham was quiet, and Jerome felt freer than he had in years. The least he could do was enjoy it. 

As he mulled over whether a bagel should be considered a donut, a display window with stacks of tv's playing the news caught his attention. Jerome jay-walked across the street, his first official crime, whoopey, and started to watch the late night news.

"—intrigued the city, as the rescue was accomplished by former mayoral candidate Theodore Galavan, whose story we will be reviewing right after this program. The following recording of Jerome Valeska is graphic, and we suggest—"

"Oh, they're talking about me," Jerome said to no one. A wide, toothy smile spread across his face. He really was loved, wasn't he? They were probably gonna show his appearance at the GCPD. Probably? Certainly. The Manaix raid was the only time he'd ever been on camera for realsies.

The news anchor finished her warning, and the video started. Jerome was standing on a stage in some getup holding a knife to Bruce Wayne's throat. The real Jerome flinched. He didn't think he remembered that. He'd never been anywhere as fancy as a benefit, and he wouldn't have forgotten holding Gotham's prince hostage. Jerome laughed and whispered something in Bruce's ear, and he didn't remember that. He searched for some sort of idea of what he'd said but there was nothing there.

Out of nowhere, Theo's voice boomed, "I said enough." Tv Jerome released Bruce and slowly turned around. As soon as he had fully turned, Theo thrusted a knife into Jerome's neck, and that didn't happen, he didn't remember this. Theo brought Jerome to the floor, knife still in his neck, saying something, but Jerome had no idea what he said even though he'd been there. And the footage wasn't some fake bullshit for drama television. The Jerome bleeding, suffering, dying was him; Jerome would recognize himself anywhere.

The clip cut out. The news anchor spoke, and Jerome, terrified, listened. "Jerome Valeska died from the stab wound on that very stage. As he had no living family, Valeska's corpse was taken care of by the GCPD. Now, seven months later, we—"

Seven months ago. He died. He died seven months ago. But he hadn't even been in Indian Hill for seven months; it'd been a month max, and he didn't remember any of that footage, and did he even have a scar? A scar. Yes, a scar would be proof that he was really there, right? Jerome grabbed at his neck, searching for a bump, any sort of tissue, anything saying he'd been stabbed in the neck seven months ago.

There was nothing. Somehow, his neck was clean of any memory of the night he died in front of Gotham. Jerome recalled when he was thirteen and some older boys had stabbed him with a screwdriver. It'd left a nasty scar that had never faded. He scrambled to lift up his shirt, and he couldn't find that scar either. His stomach should have been full of old scars. He remembered so many attacks from the circus and Arkham, why didn't he have anything to show of them?

Jerome dropped his shirt and raised his shaking hands. They were bare of any marks. He stared at his soft, undamaged, quaking hands. Barely able to force any of the night's crisp air into his lungs, the red-haired boy standing in front of an electronics store realized one thing.

He was not Jerome Valeska.

*  
*  
*  
32 days after the cataclysm  
*  
*  
*

"Ecco, get in here," Jeremiah sweet-talked to the closed door. "I have some things to discuss with you about tonight."

Ecco bounced into the room, slamming the door against the wall. Jeremiah grimaced. Every time. Not worth mentioning now, though. Based off of her nauseatingly large smile, Ecco was in a cheerful mood. He'd need that if he wanted to keep her attention on the task at hand. A moody Ecco was not a useful Ecco.

“Yeah, boss?” 

"Do you have the details about the gangs and leaders I requested?" Jeremiah kept his face stoic, but inside he was running over every possible flaw in his plan. Gotham was full of wild cards needing to be watched. Plenty of these people were idiots, driven by unsubstantial desires such as money or power. They were easily manipulatable and, frankly, predictable, yet knowing their moves could be the difference between success and failure. Tonight needed to be a success.

"Oh, yes. I figured it all out for you." She bit her lip as she smiled. Ecco stared into his eyes, probably thinking he was her one true love. Jeremiah appreciated the enthusiasm, despite her every loud and obnoxious decision. Loyalty was one of the few things he yearned for most in the world, second only to Bruce.

Oh, how sweet the loyalty of Bruce would be. His equal, the one who understood him unlike anyone else, completely willing to give over anything. Bruce had already shown Jeremiah that he was caring and sweet. Jeremiah knew the boy would do anything for the ones he loved. He'd even die for them. Jeremiah would never ask him to do anything as bold as risk his precious life for him, but having to tell him so seemed delightful.

"Uh... boss?" Jeremiah snapped his head back to look at Ecco. "Sorry, you dozed off there for a second. What were you thinking about?" Ecco leaned in, clearly hoping the answer was her. Improbable.

"It's irrelevant. How are our friends on the west side? Scrambling, I hope?" The corners of his lips twitch at the thought of James Gordon racing from street to street trying to gain ground. Perhaps the man was in the process of killing himself through goodness. The irony was as sweet as candy.

"Oh, yes. The GCPD is overwhelmed with refugees and anarchy. Yesterday morning, someone threw a molotov into the station. No casualties, but three officers came out with severe burns." She giggled and sighed. "I wish I'd seen it."

Of course she did. "And what about the Sirens? Is there any concern of them trying to expand to my—my apologies—our side of Gotham?" Making any sort of real progress would be difficult if the Sirens knew where Jeremiah's head of operations was. They were friends of Selina Kyle, and no doubt would find his presence grating. They might have even wanted to kill him.

"The Sirens are selling supplies, mostly food, to the southern part of the island. They haven't made any efforts in this direction. Nothing new there." Ecco's face twisted up like she'd eaten a lemon slice but didn't continue. That girl confused him some times.

"Has Mr. Cobblepot tried to expand beyond City Hall?" he asked, still on edge from Ecco's strange expression. Jeremiah respected Cobblepot, to a degree. He had watched carefully when the former mayor's position in Gotham fluctuated. He'd even voted him into office, though part of him looked down on his power-hungry lifestyle. 

"Nope. He's, uh, focusing his empire around his district. Penguin even started making bullets!" He immediately grabbed for a pen. After rifling through a few architectural plans, Jeremiah found his supplier list. The spreadsheet had neat lines and columns, and Jeremiah considered it high-quality. He marked down the information along with possible uses and bartering chips. Bullets always came in handy at times like those. 

"Mmm! Scarecrow claimed part of Otisburg." Ecco pulled out her gun and started playing with it. Oh, here it came. "His gang's very protective, almost killed me when I tried entering their territory." Her next laugh was clearly forced. "Might have to deal with them later." Ecco's smile was gone, and she stared blankly at her gun. _That_ was going to be a problem. Jeremiah couldn't have her breaking on him. She needed to be ready to show her devotion in the ceremony at all costs. Her moods lasted hours; if he didn't jump on this now the plan would have to be delayed.

He softened his features to seem more consoling. "Darling, there is nothing to worry about. Scarecrow is new to leadership, hardly a man to worry about." Ecco turned her attention to Jeremiah. He nodded sympathetically. "My point is, Scarecrow's gang didn't get you. You are far too clever for them to kill you."

She holstered her gun as she put on a smile. "Do you really think that?"

"Why, certainly. You are the cleverest person I have ever known—," Jeremiah hesitated. He was lying, and he hated lying about Bruce. "And I know no one could ever hurt you—," except for him and Bruce, "so why don't you give your bullet a shake." Stop forcing him to do this. "You know how the injury affects you." She giggled for perhaps the thirtieth time that day and jerked her head to and fro. Back to normal. Jeremiah rose from his old swivel chair. Pacing his steps perfectly even, he strutted to Ecco and grabbed her hands. "We are gonna be just fine. Now, why don't you tell me what I really want to know."

Jeremiah pulled them into a tango position he learned in the circus, Ecco following eagerly. Of course, the dance he performed with Ecco was much different from the dance all those years ago. Jerome always knew exactly how to lead. He'd take Jeremiah's hand and spin him around whatever abandoned field they happened to be in. They'd smile and hum their own songs. Jerome would hold him close, smiling a close-lipped, contented smile. One of the few gentle things he could do. But now, Jeremiah held the power. He made Ecco his puppet. The dance was _his_ spell, and Ecco fell for it every time.

"Bruce?" Ecco whispered in his ear. Jeremiah shivered at the enchanting sound of his name. By the volume of Ecco's squeal, she felt him despite their fluid movement. 

"Of course." Jeremiah grinned, imagining how brave Bruce must have been acting in the chaos after his masterpiece. That boy always had a heroic streak. Not any freshly-eighteen boy would rush into danger, knowing how cruel and heartless Jerome was, all while charming a shy engineer into doing the same thing. His nobility tantalized Jeremiah in ways the other would soon know.

"Well," she started, "he's been very angry about losing Selina—"

"She died?" Jeremiah jaw dropped wide open. He shot the bitch in a rather dangerous spot, but even in his wildest dreams he never would have supposed she would die. Sure, the plan would have to change again, but it might just be worth it. He brought Bruce so much closer to him. Selina was his biggest competition, and she died? Bruce must have been devastated. He'd have to send flowers. Yes, a single blue poppy from Bhutan to show how rare an individual Bruce was.

"Not really, but the cat seems to have lost a life. She can't use her legs." Oh. She hadn't died. She was a paraplegic. Not dead. Jeremiah squeezed Ecco's hand hard. She was a tease. She couldn't be allowed to say those sort of things willy-nilly. Bruce was his to claim, to know all about, to be connected to in ways nobody else was. For a brief second, his every trouble had disappeared in a rush of pure joy. But only for one second before the pain came rushing back. He couldn't allow slips that hurt.

Ecco whined, facing her puppy dog eyes at him. Jeremiah released her hand, but not without digging his neatly manicured fingernails into it first. With the same strut as before, Jeremiah returned to his chair. He tamed his attitude and his face into his usual cool dominance. The fun was over. The only desire he had was Bruce.

"The next time you notify me on the status of Bruce Wayne or Selina Kyle," Jeremiah said, all emotion lost from his voice. "You will not frame such information as to make me believe scenarios that are not wholly truthful."

"Oh, I'm sorry, pudding. I didn't mean—"

"I know very well you didn't mean to. Tell me more about Miss Kyle's condition." Jeremiah cracked his neck, venting his frustration in the only way he could. The sound satisfied him.

"Like I said, the cat's legs are out of action. She and the butler barely flew out of Gotham before you blew out the bridges so perfectly..." Ecco was clearly waiting for some sort of reaction, but none came. She lost her right to his pandering. "Um, but Bruce has put in a request to bring Pennyworth back. The government acting how it is, I don't think anything will happen. But, I also heard that Bruce is very interested in you as well."

A smile begged to creep its way onto his face, but Jeremiah resisted. Bruce was _interested_ in him. "Mmmm?" he managed to slip out. 

"Oh yeah. Apparently, cops can't say your name when he's around or else he vanishes. Though Bruce has been saying your name plenty," Ecco said, lilting her voice suggestively.

"What has he been saying," Jeremiah asked, barely containing the emotions those simple sentences invoked. He tapped his desk quickly in his usual habit.

"All sorts of things! He's very desperate to catch you but won't say when or how. Bruce says you were doing great things for this city, but all your work was ruined. He says you're evil, the worst sort of person. He's driving the station mad with his constant talking."

Jeremiah whimpered in the back of his throat. "Oh my..." he whispered, not to anyone in particular. This was much better than what he expected. Bruce cared so much for him. Perhaps he felt the connection between them too. After all, Bruce was a brilliant person, and his brilliance ran right through his soul. Jeremiah wouldn't be surprised to hear that he was already narrowing on his location. Which wouldn't be good at all.

"Ecco, is there any evidence that my dear Bruce," he said, slowing down over his best friend's name. "is close to finding us? Has he made any progress towards figuring out the plan?"

"None, boss. It seems he's too busy organizing the green zone with Captain Gordon." Ecco looked up at the stained ceiling, seeming to be trying to remember something. Jeremiah let her think until she realized what she'd forgotten. "Oh, yeah! He's made untimely disappearances though, so I'll keep an eye on him."

"All very good, Ecco. Thank you." Jeremiah remained in a bit of a haze. Bruce always seemed to do that to him. Oh, Bruce... He heard a squeak and jolted back up in his chair. Ecco was sneaking out of the office, presumably leaving Jeremiah to his dreamy state. He shook his head and called her back to his desk. He still had more to ask her.

"My ensemble for tonight. It is laid out in my sleeping quarters, yes?" Jeremiah was rather excited. He did love to look good for a crowd.

"Sure is! And mine's all ready to go, too," Ecco said, chipper as ever. Jeremiah finally sent her on her way with a reminder to set up a meeting with the leader of the local gang. He was pleased to know she left as she came: wearing a smile the size of his brother's ego. 

Jeremiah rose from his chair and marched to his quarters. They were the priest's quarters first, but it appeared that he got out before the bridges blew. The church, corruptible as ever, was free of money when he arrived, and there was no sign a child of God had ever worshipped there. However convenient for him, Jeremiah did so hate a traitor.

As it was right down the hall, it did not take long to get into the humble room. It had a single bed, a nightstand, a body mirror (an addition by him), and a wardrobe. He had removed the desk, as it reminded him too much of his own from his days at St. Ignatius. It was bare of any personal touches, except for Jerome's diary, a gift from Bruce, and, of course, Jeremiah's regal outfit for the night. 

Sitting on the bed was a suit so beautiful, it compelled Jeremiah to cry. Resting on top of the stunning outfit was his favorite pair of leather gloves, the black ones. His pants were striped with dark gold and black, glitter running down the gold stripes. There was a simple black undershirt placed underneath a dark purple vest with a simple red tie, and around those was a red trenchcoat with golden baroque patterns. The trenchcoat was Jeremiah's favorite part of the outfit, with its graceful curves and how the way it reflected light made him look like he shimmered. It was quick, stunning work by his tailor. So stunning, in fact, he let the woman live to see another day. 

Jeremiah immediately put on each article of clothing, watching his fingers move so they wouldn't mess a single thing up without his knowledge. Such a wonderful piece of art needed to be worshipped. And worship it he did. Jeremiah admired himself in his mirror, loving each and every part of the outfit. If only Bruce were here to see him. Not even that boy, with his impossibly, wonderfully, adorably high morals, could resist him.

He didn't let himself go off into that line of thought. His suit was too nicely made for such carnal distractions. Not to mention, he still had to put on his makeup. The cosmetic effects of Jerome's gas, the only effects, may he mention, had started to wear off. Instead of a vampire-like clear white, his skin turned to a patchy mix of natural and unnatural. There were no poems to be written about the pureness of his uncovered skin. Jeremiah prided himself on his well-kept look, and he intended to keep himself awe-worthy. Whose respect would he earn if he looked to have hives? Not Bruce's, and certainly not a single Gothamite's.

Applying the makeup was not easy. He had no real surface but the nightstand to put it on, and half of the space was occupied by his alarm clock and Bruce's gift. The light was atrocious as well. The only source was a very yellow light bulb, which acted contrary to his goals. He wanted his face to have a certain glowing quality but not glow in the dark.

After forty-five minutes of not-quite getting his makeup and hair right, his look was complete. The people would love him. Everything about him screamed otherworldly. Angelic, if he was bold enough to say it. The foundation was a bit thick, he noticed, but he was new to makeup and not redoing all of his hard work.

The only problem would be putting on his smiling mask, but he didn't worry too much. Jeremiah designed it so it would grip the side of his head instead of his face or hair. It was good handiwork, if Ecco was to be believed.

Jeremiah checked his watch. 5:23. Still over an hour until the ceremony. He had time to burn. At 6 o'clock he would make the final touches to the nave and the sanctuary (candles, banners, and such), and afterwards, he would rehearse his carefully written lines. But until then, there was nothing to do but wait.

 

****

 

If there was one thing to be said about the man who was not Jerome but called himself that anyway, it was that he always knew the word on the street. Via a massive spiderweb of friends and allies, Jerome was never shocked by the consistently strange happenings of Gotham. In fact, his complex system had been what led him to be standing outside of an old church at 6:55 in a place full of kooks and crazies. 

An old friend from the Hill had walked into his home just a few hours earlier, announcing he had great news with all of his usual splendor. Jerome quickly hushed him. Though his home was an abandoned cellar below a rotted house, it was not sound proof. He'd spent many years hiding away from the world, and he would risk his carefully-managed security on nothing but that which he valued most.

The friend, Dennis, who preferred to be called Ten-Eye, lowered his voice slightly and continued to strut towards Jerome in his usual way. He messed with his already-loosened tie and straightened his plain t-shirt.

"Oh, buddy, I'm telling you, you are gonna love this. Like, _really_ love this. Best news since the bridges!" Ten-Eye declared. His fingers, each with their own eye, were pointed at Jerome. The man must have been pretty excited since he usually preferred to keep his eyes in his pockets.

"Don't mess with me now, isn't that what you say every time something happens?" Jerome teased. He rose from his large armchair and pulled the man into a hug. "Where you been, bud? I've been getting bored down here, all by my lonesome." He pointed to the makeshift kitchen across from him. "Go grab us something to drink, then we'll talk about whatever you're so damn excited about."

"That's my Jerome, always skipping right past a friendly greeting!" he said as he walked to the three shelves and wood stove. He grabbed two Dr Peppers. "I've been fine, by the way. Just wandering 'round town, getting mixed up in some gangs." Ten-Eye sat down on the wooden chair next to Jerome's much softer one. They opened their drinks and sighed together, one happy and the other disappointed. 

"My supplier has really got to get some fresher soda," Jerome, the disappointed one, said. He chuckled and took a swig. "Now, Ten-Eye, what's this crazy news I'm gonna love?" 

"It is crazy, you gotta believe me there. When I heard it, I hardly believed the dude would do something so out-of-the-blue. I mean, after what he did you'd think he was running for the hills, but nope. He came up here, sat down, and started something. Insane, you'll love it." Ten-Eye was smiling, pushing his bottom lip out with his tongue. He looked three inches away from turning into a wild dog and running laps around the cellar. 

"What happened that's got you all riled up?" Jerome asked again, losing his patience. He wasn't too fond of Dennis, even though he pretended for the other man's information.

"Oh, you won't believe it. I heard it from this one girl I was getting a drink from who heard it from this other guy who was actually told directly from the dude's assistant or something? I never woulda heard it if I hadn't—"

"Dennis, why are you here?" Jerome asked, holding back his anger. Dennis' face drooped.

"Hey, you know I'm not called that anymore—"

Jerome jumped to his feet and yanked Dennis up by his shirt collar. They were nose-to-nose, and Dennis' hurried breaths brushed across his face. "I don't give a fuck right now, asshole. You came here, raving over this great secret I'll want to know, and now I want to hear it. So tell me." Jerome snarled like a hungry wolf, and Dennis breathed even quicker.

"Oh, okay, man! I was just building the moment. I didn't mean anything by it. Jerome, I can't see, how angry are you?" Dennis babbled. Jerome hissed. "Oh, uh, nevermind! It-it-it's your brother! He's starting a church. The f-f-first meeting is at 7 tonight!"

Jerome pushed Ten-Eye back into the wooden chair. The man faced one hand at Jerome and gripped onto the seat with the other, not daring to stand back up. Jerome smiled and held out his hand. "Thanks a lot, Dennis. You were right, you did bring good news." He waggled his hand. "Well, come on, don't you wanna get outta here?"

Ten-Eye decided to scamper off, probably out to some barely-together bar where he tried to forget what happened. Their little rendezvous always ended with violence and fear, but the man kept on coming for some mysterious reason. Maybe Jerome was his only Dr Pepper supplier.

So that was how Jerome ended up in a crowd of a couple dozen noisy people. He didn't particularly like being in public, as the mask he wore to protect his identity wasn't comfortable at all. Still, he knew his sorta-kinda-brother was in the church in front of him. A real leader type. Smart, independent, and the only family he had. 

Jerome might not have really been there in the womb with Jeremiah, but there were memories in his head. He remembered climbing up an old oak tree and making up funny little stories about strangers passing by. He watched Jeremiah drawing complex mazes that always took Jerome ages to figure out. He had phantom pains of the bruises and scrapes they gave each other when they fought. Jerome died—the original Jerome—but this one hadn't. He'd stayed safe, cherishing each memory that wasn't really his. 

DING... DONG... DING... Seven times the church bell rang. It was time. The crowd's voices lowered to whispers. Energy pulsed through the air. Jeremiah Valeska, the man who brought Gotham to its knees, who released its citizens to chaos, who was Jerome's closest thing to family, was going to take them under his wing. He would save them.

The church doors swung open, and behind them stood a woman with blonde hair and a porcelain mask in a striped black, red, and white mummer costume. She looked over the crowd and stopped at Jerome. His mask seemed to grab her attention. She slowly tilted her head and spoke.

"Welcome, pilgrims, to the Church of Jeremiah Valeska." Her voice was level and calm. Jerome found himself smiling at it. 

The woman turned and strolled inside. No one moved. Jerome generally avoided being the first to anything, but... this was Jeremiah. He climbed the stairs ahead of him, each a small mountain. Looking inside, he saw the woman standing in front of the rows of pews. It was time.

He walked into the church, its deafening silence filling his head. The only sounds were his footsteps. Banners with Jeremiah's face, which looked so much like his face had, hung from the wall, giant and intimidating. Candles were perched everywhere. The flames flickered, casting shadows on every statue, banner, and person. He continued to the very front and sat in the front left pew. 

The woman leaned towards Jerome and tilted her head again. Part of him wanted to tell her to shove it. God-damned idiot didn't have to stare at him like an animal on display. If anything, he should be staring at her. She was the one who led this weird-ass church. Yeah, he knew a church for a person was weird, but he came because Jeremiah was special to him. Why was she here? Why did Jeremiah trust her? Jerome didn't bother to hide his displeasure. This, his nearly uncontrollable anger, was another reason he wore a mask.

People began to flood into the church, and the woman returned her blank look to them. They seemed just as stunned as he had been when he entered. No one uttered a word. This place felt holy, even though he suspected no-one in the building believed in anything traditionally 'holy'. 

Seat after seat was taken, and soon the woman closed the doors. When she returned to the front, Jerome noticed his heartbeat. Jerome gulped after an especially strong thump in his head and realized his throat was dry. His nerves were getting the better of him.

The church returned to complete silence, and the woman began to speak again. This time, her voice grated against Jerome's ears.

"Hello, pilgrims. It pleases me, and Jeremiah himself, to see you all here. He knows it takes courage to be one of few and reach out towards a better future." She stayed perfectly still, her voice never wavering. "You have come here in search of truth in these hard times. On the streets, our friends and family fight and die. But not here, at the church of Jeremiah Valeska. No. Here, we are safe. We are given the opportunity to be true to ourselves and worship He who gives us this chance.

“But you are not here to see me speak of Our Savior. I introduce to you the man who will save you from these wretched times. Pilgrims, Jeremiah Valeska." She rotated precisely, taking two steps to her left, and turned back to the audience. She raised her right arm up, pointing up a steep flight of stairs.

Jerome's mouth gaped. There he was, standing at the top. He glittered despite the darkness surrounding him, but the shadows made any distinct physical features impossible to see. He floated down the stairs, each part of him coming into view. His light's source seemed to be himself, like the moon in a night sky. Logically, Jerome knew it was simply a play of the lights, but the majesty of his brother enchanted him.

Jeremiah, in his glowing red and gold suit, wore a white mask. A red smile and simple black mesh for eyes decorated the blank space. Jerome frowned behind his own mask, which was dirty and grey. He wanted to see his brother's face. Jeremiah was _right there_. Wasn't he allowed to reach up and touch his mirror self?

Then, Jeremiah began to speak, and the heavens opened.

"Loyal pilgrims, thank you for coming here tonight. As my faithful assistant has said, I am proud of each and every one of you. This ceremony would not be able to happen without you all. You are important to me, my cause, and this world.

“I am sure you are wondering what it is this church is dedicated to. When you heard of my glory, did you not ask yourself why? Why has this religion, this purpose come into your life? Pilgrims, I have the answer. You are here to become the best you can be. Through worship and faith, you will learn the meaning of your life." Jerome's smile had returned. He sounded pretentious, but Jerome couldn't help the zeal brewing in his stomach.

"I will lead you, my pilgrims, into a state of complete happiness, where you will walk our dangerous streets with hope. This last month has been hard on us all. When the government abandoned this city, you saw the truth behind your past leaders. They have no sympathy for you. They've seen your pain, and they do not care. You have been thrown out like second-hand garbage. Even the reputable James Gordon has abandoned you.

“They were wrong to do this, those politicians and fakes. You are crucial to the future. With every step you take, you carve a new reality. I promise I will take care of you through this journey, give you someplace to go when things go wrong. If you do not want to vouch your loyalty to me, I understand. The way of prosperity is not for us all, but if that is the path you choose, leave now. I will not judge." Jeremiah folded his hands in front of him. He scanned the room. And there it was. The sound of footsteps walking into the aisle, the doors opening, and then return to silence. The useless ones had left, and all that remained were the crazies who actually planned on worshipping his brother. 

Jeremiah sighed. "I knew that not all of those who had come here tonight would be prepared to do as I asked. Luckily for me, you have shown your worth. You are now the official followers of the Church of Jeremiah Valeska. Do not think loyalty comes without reward, my pilgrims." 

The man raised his arms towards his head. His movements were like syrup, slow and sweet. Jerome leaned forward. He was going to do it. Jeremiah's hands gripped the sides of the mask. Here it came. He pulled the mask from his face and handed it to the woman.

A collective gasp echoed around the room. Jeremiah's skin glowed a bright, gentle white. Jerome thought of fresh snow fallen on Christmas morning. It was unnatural and haunting and stunning. His lips were a bright summer red, a beautiful contrast to his unblemished skin. And his eyes. His eyes, surrounded by darkness, were pale. If Jerome hadn't been so close, he would have thought there was no color in his pale green eyes. He was worthy of being painted by artists of the Renaissance, but strokes of color couldn't begin to illustrate this man. 

What happened to his brother to make him like this?

Jeremiah smiled, close-lipped yet gentle. "This is who you've chosen to follow. I hope you do not regret your choice," he said in his cool voice. As he scanned the room, his piercing eyes landed on Jerome, just as the woman's had done. The difference being, he liked this attention.

"I am giving to you your first mission. There is nothing more comforting than to share something. Over the next week, I ask of you to share the message of our church to all. Everyone deserves happiness, pilgrims. I hope to see you here, as well as a few friends, next week. Same time, same day, same place, for as long as this church shall live. Goodnight, pilgrims. Remember your purpose."

The nod of his head signified that the group should leave. Jerome looked down into his lap where he clasped his hands. The crowd of followers, or 'pilgrims,' as they were called, left the church as quietly as they had come. Not a whisper followed them out the door. No doubt sprang to Jerome's mind that there would be more people next Sunday. His brother's speech could easily inspire even the most rigid of survivors into a life of devotion, if Jerome's own excitement said anything. 

A glowing warmth pulsed in Jerome's chest. Something about the warmth made his fingers tingle and his mouth pull into a toothy smile. Though seeing his reaction was quite impossible, Jerome still worked hard to keep himself from pulling his brother into a hug. He was glad his mask hid this strange urge from Jeremiah and his dreadful assistant.

Finally, Jerome heard the church doors close and looked back up to one person he desperately wanted to speak to. Jeremiah was looking at him too, with his eyebrows pulled together but that thin smile remaining on his face. The girl was unimportant.

Jerome found he had a lump in his throat and cleared it. Now or never, buddy. He rose, walking and looking around the place to feign boredom. Giving people the idea that he didn't care where he was or who he was talking to always put him in the position of power he needed to get what he wanted. Doctor Strange had never taught him any better method. 

A laugh forced its way into the air. He couldn't tell if it sounded as nervous as he felt. Now or never. "So, nice little speech you had there," he said, swivelling back to face Jeremiah, whose smile had disappeared. "A little sanctimonious though, doncha think? I mean, you had those suckers lapping it all up, don't get me wrong. I'd even say I was proud of you, Miah."

In an instant, Jeremiah's eyes were full of a wavering fire. "Jerome?" he said, his voice shaky.

A smile pulled at his face. "Aww," he said, exaggerating how touched he was. "You even remember my voice."

But Jerome's happy chit chat had not gotten the reaction he expected. Jeremiah's hands pulled into tight fists, and he stalked towards Jerome with the fury and determination of a man with no fear. Jerome thought for a second that perhaps he should have considered that Jeremiah would not have wanted to see him. Perhaps he should have thought this before Jeremiah's fist collided with his jaw and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like? Dislike? Tell me everything, I wish to know all your thoughts, even if its only "good job." Every time you kudo or comment I scream a little, so lets hope I loose my voice by the time the next chapter comes out. Thanks for reading friends!!! Hit me up on Tumblr @hornsorhalos if you want to nerd out over Gotham or my fic or literally anything!


	2. Total Primitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this the chapter of canon divergence, despite this entire fic being a clone au.
> 
> It's here!!! I'm posting this today as a birthday gift to gaythom, my biggest inspiration and My Fav.
> 
> Also, Bruce gets his first pov :)

Hallucinations. Gas-induced hallucinations were the only possible reasoning behind any of this, Jeremiah decided as he paced in his office. He was simply imagining this realistic, unconcious, _alive_ Jerome strapped to a chair. The gas had made an unexpected return, creating a figment of his mind, which Ecco pretended to see as well because she wanted to please him. Jerome was not back from the dead. His body was long gone, rotting in a filthy unkept grave.

Then again, resurrection never seemed impossible in Gotham, especially concerning his brother. Jerome's followers, insane as they were, efficiently carried out his every order when he was alive. It wouldn't be so impossible for them to replace his corpse with a convincing dummy and then force Hugo Strange to execute his deplorable science on the real one. Jerome was charismatic enough to pull it off, though Jeremiah didn't want to admit so.

Jeremiah took off his gloves to rub his face, struggling to come up with any sort of believable answer. Realizing he was smearing his makeup, he looked at his hands and saw a swirl of white and red. Traces surely remained, though his god-like appearance was gone. Not the impression he wished to give to his brother, but it wasn't as if Jerome had given him his best either, approaching him like they were friends. 

Friends? Jerome played with his emotions, pulled him out of his safe place. He'd made him scared for his life for years upon years. He kidnapped Bruce far too many times for his liking and ruined any chance for the boy to have a nice, normal life, perhaps with a certain reclusive but loving husband.

Looking back at his prisoner, Jeremiah grimaced at the scars running up and down Jerome's face.  He recognized the ones that decorated his skin before his death, but a mess of white and red lines covered the rest of what used to be his mirror image. Some scars were the work of knives, straight and puffy, while others were faint but messy. Someone unhinged had attacked with blades and their own fingernails. Looking closer, Jeremiah noticed the fainter scars crowded near the deep rings surrounding his main features. A thought dashed through his mind, but he ignored it. These were simply memories of a now-deceased attacker and nothing else. 

Either way, the scars held no importance. Jerome, the insufferable dunce, needed to be dealt with, if he was real. Nothing satisfactory came to mind. Oh, the usual disposal methods were obvious, but they didn't hit the right chord, so to speak. Jeremiah looked at Jerome, constrained to a chair and vulnerable. Really looked at him.

He didn't want to kill him. Not unless he had no choice.

Jeremiah huffed. The idea of keeping his brother alive was ridiculous. Jerome proved time and time again that he would stop at nothing to ruin Jeremiah's life. He was dangerous and made Jeremiah act spontaneously. Volatility followed Jerome like a plague. He was unreliable, untrustworthy, and obnoxious. Killing him _was_ his only choice.

As he massaged his eyes, Jeremiah heard a groan. Jerome was waking up. He yanked a handkerchief from his desk and wiped his hands clean. Jerome's head bobbed back and forth. It wouldn't be long until he resurfaced. Jeremiah gave him a minute, maybe two.

"Ecco," he whispered, watching his brother carefully. She popped her head out from behind the doorway she was guarding.

"Yeah?"

"Grab me my butterfly knife. It's resting on my nightstand. Don't give it to me until I summon you again." Jeremiah examined Jerome. Any moment now.

"Is it next to Bruce's—" Jerome interrupted with a groan.

"Yes, now go, you dumb girl!" he whispered with as much urgency as possible in a low voice. Ecco nodded and disappeared into the hallway, closing the office door behind her. At least she had the brains to do that.

Another louder groan erupted from Jerome, as well as a few swear words. The questions inside Jeremiah pounded against his skull. There were too many unknown factors. The unpredictability didn't frighten him—of course it didn't, he was better than some ridiculous fear—but he didn't appreciate it. Jerome's awakening would be the start of something monstrous and out of control. One could say the same thing about his birth.

The scar-faced thing looked up, his lips parted and eyes squinted. He looked around the room as if searching for a vaguely important possession. With his eyes now open, Jeremiah could see the bags underneath them, the stretched dark skin larger than he'd ever seen on his brother. A twinge of concern shot through him. He ignored it. This was the man who tortured him, tried to kill him and Bruce. 

Bruce could have died because of Jerome. They could have never met, and it would have been Jerome's fault. He was why his life went wrong at every corner. Jerome destroyed everything he touched. His brother never deserved Jeremiah's love, and he wasn't getting it. Not now, not ever. He was the same cocky shithead who believed he was king of the world. Jeremiah rolled his eyes. Not this time around.

"Ah-hem?" Jeremiah said pointedly, crossing his hands behind his back and bowing forward to be face-to-face with the dazed Jerome. 

Jerome murmured about head injuries, and his eyes fluttered like a camera lense, finally resting on Jeremiah. His lips twitched into a confused smile. "Hello there. I must've been knocked out good; I'm even seeing double.'

Jeremiah scoffed and straightened his back as Jerome chuckled. "I certainly hope you aren't. I'd hate to have such horrific scars."

"That's not how you say hi to your big bro," Jerome said, mutilated lips twisted in an ugly frown, and he dared to sound disappointed. "I don't recall you being so catty, Miah."

"Don't call me that," he retaliated. The fire Jerome always caused sparked in his gut. "You lost the privilege years ago."

"Catty? That's sorta weird, but—"

"Not catty, you idiot," Jeremiah seethed. He shook his head, feeling the blood rush to his fists. They burned. "Miah. Don't call me Miah." 

"Alright, you're the boss," he said, shrugging. Jeremiah slanted his head. Stepping down wasn't like Jerome. Death hadn't reformed his behavior before (as far as he could tell), so why this time? A mysterious change indeed. "So, are ya gonna let me outta these ropes or what?" 

Jeremiah snapped back to the present. Concentration proved itself difficult when his brother was around. He required complete focus if he were to get the answers he wanted.

"The ropes are there for a reason. Who are you?" Jeremiah asked, keeping eye contact. Jerome needed to be intimidated if he was going to talk.

"Ooo, someone's got a kink" He winked. Disgusting. "I'm your big bro, Jerome Jack Valeska." He laughed, but hurt flashed in his eyes. If he was a hallucination, he could be using his usual deception and story-building it was adept at. 

"Are you a delusion or are you my flesh and blood?"

"Neither, actually," Jerome confessed. His shoulder twitched.

Jeremiah tensed, curiosity thrumming across his skin. "What are you?" he said, sliding his hands behind his back.

"I am..." Jerome drifted off, and a smirk slid onto his face. "100% sass and good looks. Always have been, always will be."

Jeremiah growled lowly. Every time he asked a simple question, his brother felt the need to be an insufferable buffoon. Jerome must have seen his anger, as he frowned and sniffed uncomfortably. Much better. Nobody should be that cheerful when tied to a chair. 

"If you are really Jerome, answer my questions truthfully," he began, circling around Jerome's chair in an effort to extinguish his growing anger. It wasn't working. "or I will lose the benevolence I am so mercifully giving you. I don't imagine you would like to see me turn uncouth."

"Oh, I get all shivery when you use smart words like that." Jeremiah shot him a volatile look. "Fine, I'll behave. I'm completely human, not an illusion your big ol' brain made up."

Jeremiah's anger ignored the compliment, turning him right onto the path of exasperation. He stopped pacing and leaned against his desk to look at Jerome. "If you are real, how are you alive? Your corpse was disposed of carefully. I buried you myself to ensure you couldn't resurface. How are you alive?"

"I shoulda figured you'd ask. You've always wanted to know everything. Remember when we were little, and you convinced me to sneak out to see that fortune-teller? She was crazy as a bat but—" 

"Yes, I remember, now stop avoiding—" 

"The night was warm," Jerome began, completely ignoring him. "and Mom was out to go screw her new fling. The perfect opportunity for us to sneak out. Summer months meant that the circus was in full swing. I asked if we could go steal a pretzel, but you were determined to see Madame Verité. Our last fortune-teller had overdosed, so she was the replacement. She didn't scare you like the other one did."

Jeremiah scoffed. "I was not scared of her. She had bitten a costumer during one of her fits, and I had the sense not to talk to her. Even if I had been scared—which I was not—we were five. I would say I had the right to be frightened."

"Yeah, okay. Anyways, you wanted to hear what she'd say about our futures, so we ran to her tent. It was like entering a, uh... a whole new world. Beads hung off the ceiling and smoke curled around the room. It was dark. Remember the smell?" he asked. Jerome's blank eyes reflected the cheap lightbulb but inside was the cramped room of their childhood. He could see it, feel it, smell it.

"Like burnt sage," Jeremiah whispered. 

"Yeah," he breathed. "We sat down, and she was all creepy, and I really wanted to steal her stuff, but you said no. So we gave her a quarter. She took our hands and placed them on her crystal ball. Said some nonsense for a while and out of nowhere started eyeballing us." Jerome spoke faster. Jeremiah didn't like how this story would end. "I thought she was going to attack us but then she started talkin'. 'You wish to know your fates? Your fates are wretched. But you still wish to know?' And you said yes. And then she said something like, like, 'the key is the knife of the two-headed snake, the beginning, middle, and end—"

"—but the key never breaks, and a snake is only pulp without a bone," Jeremiah finished. The fear he'd felt when Madame Verité stared into them each, a horror etched on her face that he only began to understand once he left the circus returned full-force to the front of his mind. He raced to move on and not let her consume his thoughts.

"She spoke far too cryptically for a pair of five-year-olds. Besides, she was a scam artist. It didn't mean anything. Now, Jerome, tell me why you wanted to review that hellish story, and tell me how you are alive," Jeremiah demanded, nerves rattling around, poison in his tone. His search for answers was his only holding in the conversation. He questioned if all siblings were like them.

"When's the last time you saw Brucie? He seemed pretty nice, as far as I've seen. I'm sure he's—ha—very nice to you," Jerome dodged with an infuriatingly pleasant smile and a wink. His heart skipped, and that rushing, hot feeling returned to his hands. How dare he. How _dare_ he say that.

"Don't you say another word about Bruce. You have no right," Jeremiah drawled, barely able to speak without snarling. 

"No right? Like I have no right to call you Miah?" he hissed, rage and desperation swirling together like an April storm. "I haven't seen you since forever; we should be able to talk about anything. Come on, broski! I've always understood you better than anyone else. Let me talk to you." Jerome's face reflected the incensed pleading his words conveyed. It grabbed at him, the touch uncomfortable and far too intimate.

Then, a switch flicked in Jeremiah's mind, and the commotion inside him was quiet.

"One moment, Jerome," he said. He strode to the office door without looking back. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he imagined Jerome's crushed trust, mouth gaping open and eyebrows curved upward. If he was right about his devastation, then the plan growing in his mind would work marvellously. If not... well, Jeremiah would have no choice.

Making a few soft clicks, he opened and closed the door behind him, leaving Jerome in silence. A quick glance to his right showed Ecco patiently waiting. Miraculously, she didn't make a peep. 

"Give me the knife," he whispered, saying each word as clear as possible. 

"Is everything okay in there? It sounded pretty bad," she said, the sour-lemon look on her face again as she handed him the knife.

"Things are going splendidly. I think I've found our solution to our little feline problem. Now, I have a couple tasks for you."

 

***

 

"One moment, Jerome," Jeremiah said, walking to the door without making a sound. He closed it with a click.

Jeremiah left. He just... left him alone. No transition, no explanation, just gone. Jerome had _begged_. Didn't he get it? Jerome didn't beg. He'd rather die than lose his dignity like that, yet here he was. 

Anyone else would have reacted ecstatically, ready to give Jerome their soul. But that was part of the fun, he supposed. Jeremiah wasn't like anyone else. Ever since he'd seen him on that stage, with a bomb collar around his throat and thinly-veiled murder in his eyes, Jerome had known he wasn't alone.

The other Jerome was unattainable. He'd have fun with him and then slit his throat; he knew because that was exactly what he would have done when he first left Indian Hill. A few years later, he had evolved, but the other him? Not in the slightest. He was brilliant, if he did say so himself, but didn't understand self-preservation. 

If they were the same person, they'd both be dead, and Jerome was damn glad that wasn't the case. After all, he had Jeremiah now. Or, maybe he did. Jeremiah gave off mixed signals. Sure, he paced and grumbled and left, but the way he engaged in their memory spoke louder than any impossible questions.

 _Click_. 

Jeremiah strolled back to his place in front of his desk, a small smile on his lips. His demeanor change made Jerome squint his eyes. Games were his thing, not Miah's. 

"What did you get up to out there?" he prodded, trying and failing to lace his tone with suggestion. Jeremiah's smile stayed strong.

"Oh, nothing at all, Jerome. I had a word with my assistant, but its taken care of now," he said, and Jerome swore he saw his lips twitch mischievously. His stomach twisted at the idea of his assistant and harsh words fell from his mouth like razor blades.

"Mmm, is that assistant of yours pretty behind that mask? You do have a thing for the pretty ones, doncha?" Jerome said, smiling coldly. "I could take them off your hands, you know. I'm sure they'd _both_ enjoy it."

Other than a flash of that murderous look Jerome so admired, Jeremiah's uneffected air remained fixed. He even chuckled, light and dark at the same time. "Ecco isn't the topic of our conversation right now, and neither is Bruce. Jerome, why did you come here?"

And after evading one question over and over, he couldn't bear to do it again; he laughed. "Jeez, Miah. To think, you're supposed to be the smart one. I came here to see you, duh."

Jerome didn't like the way his eyes, previously sympathetic, snapped to indifference. As a kid, everyone said they gave away his emotions. Their mother used to say that Jeremiah's gentle eyes were proof he was more innocent than Jerome. She was wrong. Those eyes—bigger than his, and now he knew it wasn't only because of his glasses—could wrap people around his fingers. 

His brother could manipulate anyone on his worst day, and Jerome loved it. 

"Would you come back if I let you go?" he said. He picked at his nails, though Jerome doubted they were dirty. 

"Yeah, obviously." Jerome realized what he'd said and added, "Only to spice things up, though. A man misses his little brother."

Jeremiah made a content sound and traipsed to the back of Jerome's chair. Jerome couldn't see him, but the jarring press of two hands against his shoulders made it clear how close he was. He'd never been so close to him before. Exhiliration pumped through his heart.

He tugged in a sharp breath as Jeremiah began to massage his shoulders. He felt the weight of years rolling off his back. It felt good, so good, but the silence had him twitching his fingers. He needed stimulation. God, Miah had to know he needed _action_.

"You've been taking massage classes, huh Miah? Ouch!" Jeremiah yanked on Jerome's hair, pulling his head back to look at him. A cruel calm had settled on his features.

"You aren't very effective at following directions, dear brother." He spat out brother like a curse. "To use the old colloquialism: three strikes and you're out." A cold metal point hit Jerome's throat. He couldn't see it, didn't dare break eye contact. His gut told him to look down was to end his life. His gut had never led him astray before.

"Now, Jerome, I have a proposition for you," Jeremiah said, his articulate mannerism poorly disguising the face of a man prepared to sin. Jerome knew that look better than most. He'd worn it his whole life. "I am in need of an assistant who can do things on my word. I need someone with ambiguous loyalties and strong connections. You seem willing to be that someone for me. You are willing, aren't you?"

The tip of the blade dug harsher into Jerome's neck. Blood dripped down his throat, crawling down his shirt. His brother's question demanded a truthful response. If he lied to Jeremiah now, he could be lying dead on the floor in seconds. If he said that he didn't want to sit at Jeremiah's feet, to serve him, to beg for purpose and direction, he would die. His pride or his life. An expectant look dawned on Jeremiah's face. 

"Go on, Jerome. Tell me whether you wish to help me. To be with me on my path to facing divinity. Tell me, for the truth shall set you free," Jeremiah said, delight growing with each word. He was acting childish, and the familiarity of it hit Jerome like a brick wall. Though he was buried deep underneath smeared makeup and complex obsessions, the brother he remembered was still in there.

And in all his memories of their childhood, Jerome never lied to Jeremiah. 

"Yes." 

"Yes? Yes to what, exactly?" Jeremiah asked, but he was only playing at shock. The bastard—that wonderful, talented bastard—wanted him to say it. Well, what option did he have left?

"I will do anything you ask of me, brother," Jerome whispered. The knife slipped off his neck, leaving it cold but free. Jerome sighed a breath of relief and closed his eyes. "Anything."

Silence hung in the air like a man gripping the edge of a cliff. Then, Jeremiah's lips moved against his ear.

"How exemplary of you," Jeremiah hummed. The praise sent a tingling down his spine. 

As Jerome opened his eyes, warm skin brushed his bound hands. Deft fingers undid the ropes that restrained him. The cord's rough texture pulled away, and Jerome sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, almost falling over when he realized his ankles were still tied to the chair.

Mumbling quietly, Jeremiah bent down on one knee and released Jerome fully. As he shook his feet, Jerome rubbed his wrists with a grimace. The red marks that stained his body wouldn't be disappearing for a while. He had experience with that sort of thing.

Jeremiah rose and straightened out his shirt, an image of easy perfection. He grabbed his glittering coat from behind his desk and pulled it on.

"Your new life begins here," Jeremiah said, focusing on buttoning his jacket rather than looking at Jerome. "You will eat, breathe, and sleep in the church unless I direct you otherwise. In the eyes of my allies and enemies, you will be a symbol of my power and dominance. I do not expect you to change your cruel and animalistic ways, only to control them until I unleash you."

His buttons done, Jeremiah met Jerome's eyes. "You should understand that you belong to me now."

Cocky amusement laced his tone. Jeremiah was a cat playing with his prey, taunting him with silent implications. A well-dressed, cunning, powerful cat that killed with his claws rather than his teeth. Which was really too bad since Jerome had a bit of a thing for biting.

"I'll bring you to your room," Jeremiah said, directing Jerome to the door with a head tilt. 

Still rubbing, because those ropes hurt, damn it, Jerome stumbled to the exit. His legs felt a bit like jello as he grabbed the doorknob and entered the hallway. The dusty air choked him, a fit of wheezes suddenly coming over him. His empty stomach protested against the choppy movement, and his whole body burned with the effort.

After a minute of not being able to breathe, the wheezing stopped. Living in a moldy cellar for years hadn't been good for his lungs. Some days, he really wished he had shacked up with some pretty dumb girl to hide him instead of making his own home. Then again, maybe he wouldn't have met Miah in that life.

"Are you alright?" Jeremiah asked, distrust blanketing his features as if he expected Jerome to explode.

"What, are you worried for lil' ol' me?" he chuckled, his laughter growing at Jeremiah's eye roll. He lived for Miah's reactions to his jokes. After all, a joke isn't worth telling if the audience doesn't care.

"Your room is down the hall." Jeremiah placed a hand on Jerome's back to guide him. He grinned at the warm touch. It had been years since he had gotten so much attention. He didn't count people like Ten-Eye. They didn't know what he was made of or what he could do.

To be fair, neither did Jeremiah. But he was different.

A force pulled the back of his shirt and stopped him in front of a plain wooden door to his left. Jeremiah leaned across him and opened the door. More warmth across his chest, spreading to his stomach. To distract himself of just how _nice_ it felt, Jerome hummed and walked inside, examining his new home. 

The bare bed was tucked into a corner and looked too much like the ones at Indian Hill. There were some other wooden pieces of furniture, but in all other aspects the room was barren. It felt impersonal and cold.

He whirled around to face Miah, who stood primly outside the room. "Well, it ain't exactly home, but it's a lot less moldy. So, when do ya think I'll be able to get my stuff?"

Miah tittered. "We will discuss the collection of your personal items soon. Until then," he said, grabbing the door handle with a tantalizing smirk. "You aren't to leave this room. Goodnight, Jerome."

 _Slam!_ Jerome was alone again, but this time he was isolated by choice (more or less). More importantly, Jeremiah promised to speak to him again soon. 

He hurried to the door and put his ear flat against it. He shouted at the steps going down the hallway.

"What? No goodbye kiss?" Jerome called. A bout of laughter struck him, and he was certain Jeremiah could hear him. He strutted to his bed, hating it and loving it all at once. Falling, the laughter ceased, replaced with one desire rising to his attention he had not expected.

He really wanted his damn diary.

*** Four Days Later ***

Jerome's damn diary. It held all his secrets and the answers to Jeremiah's every question, yet Ecco thought he wouldn't want to be bothered by his brother's 'silly little trinkets.' The one time she doesn't tell him every detail, and he misses out on an invaluable opportunity. If he had gone to Jerome's underground lodging himself when they collected his things, Jeremiah would know so much more.

He should have known Jerome would remake his twisted and delusional journal. The fantasies sure to be in his new diary both fascinated and disgusted him. What new ideas flooded his mind as he returned to the land of the living? Having never died before, as is the general experience, Jeremiah struggled to imagine how that changed a person.

And yes, death must have changed him this time around. The Jerome who kidnapped him, kidnapped _Bruce_ , was not the man who sang a sailor song every night across the hall. That Jerome would never have submitted to Jeremiah. No, his gargantuan pride normally got in the way of humiliation. When Jeremiah held his knife to Jerome's neck, he expected his brother to crack a joke at his request of servitude. The harder he pushed him, the more obscene his jest would be, and then he'd have an excuse to ram the point into his neck until he hit the spinal column.

But Jerome wanted to serve him. 

The power that came with his submission enthralled Jeremiah. Part of him wanted to know just how far Jerome would go. Wanted to push him farther and farther, hanging on the edge, seconds from snapping. He wanted to hurt him, punch him, slide a knife along his wrists, shove a gun in his mouth, pin him to the ground, Jerome begging him to stop but never fighting him, looking at that mangled face and leaning in and—

The other part didn't want to know.

As for now, this new territory would remain unexplored. It was too dangerous to risk a remarkable weapon like Jerome for some petty flight of fancy. Satisfaction never came above the final goal, especially when the final goal had soft raven hair and an unfailingly sharp mind.

No, he and Bruce’s connection surpassed his curiosity on every count. What did it matter that he would never have his retribution as long as Bruce stayed with him? His brother had sunk to the back of his mind because of him before and would do so again once the time came to set him loose. Once Bruce united with Jeremiah, a concept as silly as brotherly dominance would be but another part of his past. Inconsequential.

And so, the plan commenced. It was heavily emended, the result of a fascinating decision made by his dear Bruce. He'd always been so selfless and virtuous, but to send the only two people he considered family to the mainland _without himself_ was a peculiar choice. A choice Jeremiah enjoyed greatly, but peculiar.

Unfortunately, the series of events he'd scheduled were completely dismantled by the lack of one vengeance-seeking Selina Kyle. With his dramatic distraction shipped out and unlikely to return, the future fell apart, piece by piece. Kyle would be pleased with herself knowing that the one time Jeremiah required her she was gone. 

The butler's exit from Gotham made everything even worse. Pennyworth doubled as crucial information and bait. He and Bruce were the only ones who knew about that fateful night in the alleyway, and Bruce had told him plenty at the bunker, but he was missing the finer details. He couldn't reenact the most important night of his life and leave anything out. The matter of dinner, as small as it seemed, could make or break the entire evening. Additionally, he couldn't train two people to act like Bruce's parents when he'd never properly talked to them. A short conversation six years past wasn't going to cut it.

Jeremiah had managed to scrape together a way to complete his task without them using contacts from both his and Jerome's arsenals. He hated the revisions; there were too many uncontrollable variables involved. Keeping track of two or three would be easy enough. He could study them and follow routines. Relying on the unknown complicated his plans. He was getting a migraine thinking about it.

"Gonna tell me where we're going yet, or is it a surprise?" Jerome asked, jolting him into the present. 

They had walked along a broken sidewalk in relative silence for about 10 minutes before Jerome spoke. Their outfits were understated and dull, which Jeremiah despised yet tolerated for the sake of his future. He flicked his attention over to Jerome's plain mask, which he had slid up so it covered his hair instead of his face. The cracks where Jeremiah's fist had collided with his jaw made him smile. That punch had felt _good_.

"We are going to meet with an associate of mine, Alexander Morf."

"Do I know him?" Jerome asked, eyes searching the sky for an answer. "Sounds familiar."

Jeremiah sighed to release the pain of obliging anything Jerome asks. "Yes, you probably do. He's better known as Sykes, the leader of the local gang."

Jerome stopped instantly, pulling Jeremiah back by his arm. Jeremiah glared at the searing heat gripping his elbow. He yanked it back, brushing off the tainted cloth. Jerome only stepped closer.

"Are you insane, Miah?" Jeremiah held back a growl at his nickname and the accusation. "Sykes is full-blown crazy. One of his men almost killed my supplier. They won't let anyone into the markets to get food and tried to shoot her when she stole for me. Good thing they ran outta bullets, or else Ten-Eye wouldn't have gotten his Dr. Pepper fix."

"I do not know who Ten-Eye is, and before you try to tell me, I do not care to know," Jeremiah said, reprimand on his lips. "Sykes may be unstable, but as you said, he has control over the resources in this zone. If you want to eat, I have to make a deal with him.”

“Sure I do, but there's gotta be someone else—“

“He also has the men I need for my project. He's the most convenient option, and I will be using him whether you approve of it or not." Jeremiah turned right into an alleyway, which led to another empty street.

"I'm only looking after you, Miah. It's what I've always done, isn't it?" His confident smirk didn't hide the concern painted over the rest of him. Cotton stuffed Jeremiah's throat, and he coughed in an attempt to get it out. Still, Jerome brought up a good point.

"You aren't to call me 'Miah' while in his presence," Jeremiah instructed. Before Jerome could utter more than a peep, Jeremiah added, "Feel grateful enough that I let you use that name in private."

"Fine, I won't call you Miah," Jerome whined. He stuck out his lower lip in an obvious pout, redder and more swollen than ever. Looking away, Jeremiah felt obligated to break the silence. Social situations never were his forte.

"Good." How poignant, Jeremiah. Surely, Jerome was quaking in his combat boots with how dominated he felt. The desire for a shot of whiskey burned in his heart.

"Can I call you Jerry?"

Jeremiah stopped. "Jerry?"

A wide smile stared back at him. "Yeah, or how about Jeremy? Remi? Or Mi Mi, definitely Mi Mi."

Jeremiah blinked a few times before continuing his path. "No, none of those."

Groaning, his brother caught up and went silent. Neither of them spoke, which felt strange. Jerome was always talking, always making a scene. His chaotic nature demanded it. After two minutes of the sound of their matching footsteps and nothing more, he got a little anxious.

Not for Jerome. That'd be ridiculous. Just, uh. In general. 

Nerves overtaking him, Jeremiah glanced at Jerome. Although he could only see it in his peripheral vision, Jerome was chewing on his upturned lips. The anxiety morphed into a new one. If he wasn't mistaken, Jerome was thinking. Nothing good ever came of Jerome _thinking_.

Jerome hmphed cheerfully and stopped his distracting lip-biting. "Alright, so, why am I coming along? Ecco didn't mention it when she chucked my clothes at me from the doorway." Jerome grunted halfheartedly. "Fiesty one, she is."

"You should have seen her at St. Ignatius. Called herself a warrior of God." Jeremiah smiled at the memory. Jerome emitted a low grumble, and he shook away the thought. Best to keep Jerome up-to-date so he didn't get too much angrier, though keeping him in the dark instead was tempting. "You are acting as, essentially, my bodyguard. That's why I gave you a gun."

"But why me? Why not Ecco? She'd do whatever you asked."

"Because, Jerome, Sykes runs an all-male gang full of pigs and perverts. They could take Ecco as a joke, and I certainly can't risk my authority during such an important negotiation. In this situation, you become... invaluable." That hurt to say, no matter how true.

"Oh." Jerome sounded some combination of disappointed and pleased. Really, there was no satisfying his brother. 

"Yes, 'oh.' Now please, give me some silence so I can make sure neither of us are murdered by the hands of a raging lunatic," Jeremiah said with pursed lips. To be honest, he'd already thought through the plan a million times. He simply didn't want to talk to Jerome anymore. 

That was fine, wasn't it? The only reason he kept Jerome around in the first place was to be a means to an end. He held on to Jerome by a string firm enough to stay connected yet thin enough to cut when the time came. He had no responsibility to entertain and befriend him as long as Jerome stayed dedicated.

They walked down three more streets and cut across two more alleyways until they finally reached a two-level gas station. As Jeremiah opened the store's dirt-covered door, Jerome sent him a bemused glance. He ignored it, trying his best not to smirk at how Jerome jumped when the door slammed behind them.

As Jerome flipped his mask over his face, Jeremiah rang a bronze call bell on a counter to his left. It’s echo satisfied him, keeping him calm. The sound seemed to have the opposite effect on Jerome. His tense shoulders gave away everything Jeremiah needed to know; he was afraid.

Really, how could death change a person so much? Jerome never showed weakness of any sorts as a child, and he had seemed to keep that up well into adulthood. At least Jeremiah could respect his newfound attentiveness, even if he portrayed it histrionically. Such things were to be expected of his brother. Death didn’t have so much power as to alter that, it appeared.

Heavy steps thudded from his right. He took this as his cue to prepare the finishing touches.

“Muss your hair,” Jeremiah ordered as rubbed dirt and dust from the counter on his suit, head up and looking at the door the footsteps were coming from. Jerome tilted his head. Jesus Christ— "That means make it messy, Jerome."

“No—that's not—okay, fine?” Jerome ran his hands through his hair, the strands coming loose. His fingers crawled over his head, like he didn't know what he was doing. They didn't have time for this.

"No, no, let me do it," Jeremiah said as he flung his hands into Jerome's hair. His brother made a squeak before tilting his head down and letting Jeremiah work. He tore through the red locks, trying to mess it up before the man behind the footsteps saw them.

"Can I ask why you're making us look like we're homeless?"

"It's all about good first impressions. Now shush," Jeremiah said, releasing Jerome and righting himself. "They're here."

As if waiting for Jeremiah's words, the door swung open with a bang. In the doorway stood a tall man in dark blacks and greys, an outfit similar to Jerome's. The man scrutinized them with a blank face. His tall stature and strong build affirmed Jeremiah that he was right to bring along Jerome. Brawns got more approval here than brains, the innocuous headquarters most likely being the one brilliant idea the gang had ever conceived.

The man nodded, his eyes locked on Jeremiah's. He turned around in the doorway and thumped up the stairs. After waiting exactly four steps, Jeremiah followed, Jerome on his heels.

The stairs lead up to a small hallway-like room with four doors. The man stood at one, his concrete face giving away nothing. He had an impressively blank stare. Or perhaps he was simply an idiot, a vacant dog on a leash.

Jerome coughed quiet enough so only Jeremiah could hear. Yes, this was no time for over-examination. He had to stay sharp and calculated, precise and sure. 

The dog-man opened the door, Jeremiah not giving him a sliver of attention as he strolled into Sykes office.

Sykes sat with his feet propped up on his desk, two agreeable yet buff men standing behind him. Biting his tongue, he threw a dart across the room. A hollow _thunk_ sounded as Sykes landed his bullseye. Sykes laughed, pointing at Jeremiah in his excitement.

"Look at that, Valeska!" Sykes exclaimed, a smug smile covering his face. "I'm a perfect shot. Haven't missed all week."

Jeremiah assumed his own shark-tooth grin. "You are quite skillful, Mr. Morf. May I sit?" he asked, gesturing at the 90s-era hospital waiting room chair in front of him.

"Go ahead," he permitted. "And call me Sykes. Mr. Morf sounds like my bastard of a father." Sykes scratched at his chin, not bothering to hide how he eyed Jerome. "See you left the girlie at home."

He'd seen it coming. He still had to fight the urge to scowl. "She's more of a scout than anything, truthfully. When I have important work to do, I bring my best man." 

"Good. Men need to stick together in times like these," he said, pointing at his thugs.

"I couldn't agree more, Sykes," Jeremiah said. "Now, rumor has it you have high hopes for your gang, the Tooth Takers?

Sykes soured. "Soothsayers."  
   
Damn it, Ecco. "Soothsayers, I apologize, that's what I meant to say. You and your soothsayers have been 'cornering the food market.'" Jerome snickered, but Sykes sniffed in indifference. The chatter about his temper had not been wrong. "Why are you so intent on controlling groceries?"

"Why were you so intent on making Gotham a no man's land? People died when you did that little number." Sykes glared across the desk. He swung his feet onto the ground, squinting.

"This city needed a remodelling. I did that for us. And sometimes, in times of great progress, casualties are a necessary part of the solution." Jeremiah didn't like where this was going.

Sykes growled.

"My ma was on one of the bridges when they collapsed. How'd that work out for your little solution?"

A gross uneasiness settled over the five men like fog on a graveyard. How could he comfort a victim of his one work? What could he call a murder to make it kinder? An undesirable consequence? An unfortunate happening? An unfavorable outcome? What was there to—

 _Slam!_ "Well, Valeska?"

In a flurry of movement, Jerome whipped out his gun and aimed it at Sykes. The guards swiftly pulled out their own and before he knew it, Jeremiah was standing with his gun pointed at Sykes' nose.

"It appears we've reached something of a stalemate," Jeremiah said, shaking his gun. "And to think, we didn't even reach negotiations."

"Gah, calm down, superstar. I was only joking. My ma's been dead for twenty years," Sykes said. He looked back at his lackeys. "Put down the guns, ya goons, and laugh!"

They lowered their weapons, forcibly chuckling and congratulating their leader for his incredibly funny and not-at-all dangerous 'joke.' When the guns were fully holstered, Jeremiah cautiously sat down. His finger still rested on the trigger.

"You can tell your man to stand down too," Sykes teased. He then said to Jerome, "We aren't threats anymore, buddy."

Jeremiah turned to face his brother. "I agree. Put it down."

"Oh, I'll put it somewhere alright." He started toward Sykes, and oh no, that wasn't happening. Jeremiah leaped up, putting his hand on Jerome's chest.

"Calm down, Jerome," he whispered through his teeth. He glared at Jerome through the cracked mask. "There are still things I need to discuss with him. His men, his supplies, his motivations. I will not have you messing this up. Don't think I'll be bringing you along anywhere if you do."

A beat of silence.

"Fine, fine, fine, I'll let this guy fuck with you some more, fine." He lifted his gun into the air, then plunged it into his back pocket. Stepping back, Jerome crossed his arms.

Jeremiah tilted his head to say, " _better_." Jerome would understand.

"My apologies, once again," he said as he retook his seat. He shaped his face to take on the look of a person much more reverent than he was. "He's a good man, but overprotective. It's his vice."

"Water under the bridge. Brother's always gotta protect another brother," he said with a wink. Surprise shot through him. How did he know? There were no signs; he'd hid them all. Was it the hair? His roots were growing but surely Sykes wouldn't recognize that? 

No, had to be speaking metaphorical brothers. Sykes seemed to be avid about all men being part of a brotherhood. It was nothing. Nothing.

"Uh, yes, yes, you are completely right. But, time ticks by, and I wouldn't want to miss dinner." Sykes grinned at that. "I have a proposition for you. I think you'll enjoy it."

"Will I?" He laid his feet on his desk again, arms stretched behind his head.

"Quite. You have men to build a tunnel to the mainland but no engineering experience. I have a surplus of engineering experience but not enough men. I think we can help each other out." Jeremiah smiled pleasantly.

"How do you know about that? Who told you?" The infamous temper flared in his eyes even as he didn't move a relaxed muscle.

"I hear things; don't worry about it." Ecco had chatted up some of his men. They'd been glad to tell her anything about everything after a few drinks to loosen their tongues. Sykes wouldn't want to hear it, despite his questions. "I request that, in exchange for my services, you allow me free-range over any businesses you've seized, as well as the men and supplies for such a project."

"And what am I getting for all that? Your 'services?'"

"I can see your skeptical, but allow me to help you understand how skilled—"

"Are you calling me stupid, boy? 'Cause I ain't stupid," he said. Jerome growled, quiet enough that only Jeremiah could hear.

"I am not calling you anything short of brilliant, Sykes," Jeremiah said, stomach twisting. "I simply want to make a deal."

"I never said I did."

"Why would you agree to meet with me if you didn't plan on making some arrangement or the other?" Jeremiah fought to stay calm and professional. Fumbling, bumbling, asinine idiot going around—.

"I don't know, maybe I wanted to hang out," he looked confused by his own words, but apparently doubling down would solve his problem. "Yeah, yeah, all I wanted was to be friends and here you are making plans!"

"Sykes..."

"You know what, I think you should call me Mr. Morf," Sykes barked, waving his arms around like an angry child.

"Alright, Mr. Morf, but please calm down."

"Oh, and now you're telling me to calm down! I don't need this. Boys—"

 _Bang!_ The man to Sykes' left dropped.

"More like 'boy,' now," Jerome chortled, starting a stand-off with the remaining thug. Jeremiah could practically see the enormous smile covering his face. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or thank him.

Jeremiah grinned and leaned back in his chair. "I think we may come to an understanding after all."

Sykes jaw dropped. "You killed one of my men!"

"Actually, he," Jeremiah pointed at Jerome, "killed one of your men."

"You're welcome." He waved without looking away from the thug.

"I meant it, what I said earlier," the capricious man said, lowering his hands below the table. Jeremiah squeezed his gun.

"What?"

Sykes revealed a gun and pointed it at Jeremiah. "I really am a perfect shot."

"Funny," Jerome said, stepping forward and tearing his mask off. "So am I."

Jerome fired his gun, a scream following the bang. Sykes' gun fell onto his desk as he cursed and swore. Blood poured from a bullet wound in his arm. His lackey rushed to put pressure on the wound, trying to calm down his frantic boss. Jeremiah firmly ignored both of them.

"What are you doing?" he asked Jerome. Jesus Christ, the plan would never work after this.

Jerome frowned. "He was going to shoot you. So I shot him."

He. He just. Jeremiah stared at him. Hot blood in his fists, hot blood in his face. Jerome, the careless, reckless _idiot_. "Jerome."

"Yeah?" 

"I could have handled it. We needed this to go well. I needed his resources. You ruined it. Jerome," he growled. "Fix this." The or else went unspoken.

"How?" Jerome asked with a tinge of hope. Hope.

Jeremiah rubbed his temples while restraining the desperate desire to strangle Jerome. "You are the one who convinced half of Gotham to become faceless criminals, figure it out."

"They were convinced long before I let them free, but..." Jerome bit his lip, and there came the mischief. "I'll get you what you want."

"Thank you," he said with mock gratitude. Jerome waved his hand towards Sykes, whose lackey bandaged him. "Get to it."

"Okey dokey." He grabbed Jeremiah's arm, pulling him up and shoving him towards the door. He waved with his gun. "See ya soon!"

Jeremiah shook his head and flourished his hands. _Explain?_

Jerome smirked and gave him a thumbs up. _Trust me._

He hated that Jerome knew exactly what he didn't say, and he hated even more that the perception went both ways. Years apart yet they knew each other like the back of their hands. He wanted that with Bruce, not his brother.

Reluctantly, Jeremiah opened the door and walked out. He gave Jerome one final glance. _Don't disappoint me._

"I got this, Jo Jo." Jerome cracked his knuckles. "Au revoir!"

He closed the door, chuckling softly. The little shit. He shot one of the most powerful men on that side of town, driving Jeremiah up the wall with crazed anger, and then teased him by throwing his own words back at him. It felt just like old times. 

Loud, intimidating laughter came from within the room. Very much like old times.

Jeremiah focused, wiping the smile off his face. He put his ear against the door. Knowing Jerome's methods could prove to be important in the future. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as the saying goes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Aren't you dead?" said an unfamiliar voice.

"There's a growing list of things wrong with me, and yeah, that's what people keep telling me."

"How are you alive?"

"The miracle of science. You wanna see what else it gave me?"

Jerome's laughter and Sykes' groaning were the only sounds he could hear. Then, Jerome stopped laughing.

"Oh my god... what is... what are you?" the unfamiliar voice asked. "No, stop, get away from me, no!"

The man screamed, shrill voice spreading like butter on bread through the air. Jeremiah shifted, pulling at his suit. The sound didn't seem human. What could Jerome be doing to make someone hurt like that? 

"What's going on in there?"

Jeremiah straightened immediately, flipping around to see the dog-man. Despite the blood-curdling scream behind the door, his face was blank as usual. Jeremiah knew exactly what to do.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be...ah-hem... working?" he asked, nose in the air, as self-assured as possible.

"Yeah, but I heard a scream and decided I should check it out," he said, dull and boring.

"Well, you decided wrongly. You may return to work now," Jeremiah insisted. The man didn't move his legs, nor his eyes, nor his mouth. Jeremiah allowed himself to sigh impatiently. He could practically hear the cogs turning in the dog-man's head.

There was nothing but whimpers and laughter to tell him what was happening inside that room. Teasing sounds, so close but not enough, like everything in his life. Jerome kept secrets from him, and they seemed to multiply. Five days ago, Jerome wasn't even alive. Today, he had a 'gift from science.' He held mysteries in his heart like a tree full of apples. Delectable apples, ripe for the picking, but horded away. He and Jerome were two seeds of the same mother, and he'd know the taste of his twin.

The journal. He needed to read the journal.

"Okay." The man nodded his hollow nod, and walked into one of the three other rooms.

Too easy. 

Jeremiah turned to the door, ready for screams or begging or _secrets_. 

It swung open, and in the doorway stood Jerome, face lit up like a city skyline.

"I got it all. He's letting us do whatever the hell we want!" Jerome laughed, childlike and filled with little coughs. Like they'd pulled off a prank. So genuinely happy.

"Men, supplies, protection?" Jeremiah asked. He couldn't help but be skeptical. Going into the meeting, he hadn't expected to get everything he wished for. Had Jerome really...?

"All of it! The name 'Jeremiah Valeska' can go very, very far now," he giggled. He clapped and clasped his hands, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. "Let's kick it and get outta here. Sykes will inform the masses."

Jerome slung his arm over Jeremiah's shoulders. Jeremiah was distantly aware that they started going down the stairs.

"Um."

"Yeah?" 

Jeremiah looked at Jerome. He'd done it. He'd fixed it. He'd—

"Is that blood on your mouth?"

Jerome's eyes widened comically big. Using the arm wrapped around Jeremiah, he wiped his thumb on the corner of his mouth, bringing their noses inches apart. Jerome squinted at the red smear before sticking it in his mouth.

The way he sucked on his thumb was graphic. His cheeks doing _that_ and his lips so _that_ and, uh, wow, he didn't really have to pull it in and out, did he? Being so close, Jeremiah could hear the little sounds of contemplation Jerome made, which were quite a bit like moans if he thought about it. He didn't want to think about, except he kinda did, but he didn't so he didn't and he just watched his brother decide whether that was blood or not.

Jerome flicked his eyes down to look at Jeremiah, and a smug smile grew across his lips. He took out his thumb with a pop and wiped the spit on Jeremiah's suit as he laughed with his whole body.

"Oh, Miah, you should see your face. This day just keeps getting better and better!" Jerome guided them down the stairs, the smile never leaving his face.

Jeremiah's head rushed with a million thoughts. The journal and the blood and the fight and the laughter swirled together to confuse him. Not many people confused Jeremiah. He didn't know if he should be suspicious or angry or indifferent, but for now?

For now, he'd just enjoy the victory.

*** Later ***

 

Bruce sat in a metal chair in the middle of a cold alleyway. It dug into his skin, yet left a pleasing chill. He couldn't be certain whether he wanted to lean back or leap away. A warm wind ruffled his uncut hair, and he distantly wondered how it managed to weave its way there.

Music drifted into the alley. The notes, light and fun, became distorted by the air it travelled on. Squeels of misplayed trumpets overtook friendly tubas. Drums increased their pace, their volume, coming closer and closer to Bruce. Brass instruments blared chaos, the offkey sounds bouncing around his head. He couldn't recognize a trombone from a french horn; their shrills melting into each other like blood and water.

The circus was coming. With each screech of some badly played instrument, it took another step towards him. It was coming faster and faster, and the world twisted in front of him. He stared at his fingers as they warped into wounded, useless things. The circus had gifted him a kaleidoscope. He didn't like it.

And like that, the music surrounded him, filling his lungs with booms and screams. He needed to stand and fight _now_. These were the oppressors on their way to take him. They'd destroy him, wholly, unapologetically. They'd snap his neck and step over him like a discarded doll. They'd do something so horrible he couldn't possibly imagine it; it would be bad bad _bad_ , horrid, beyond the pain he'd ever known.

He jumped up from the chair, pushing down a swell of vomit. He moved towards where he knew the circus was, but a wail from behind stopped him. The screaming's volume stayed on par with the music, and Bruce swiveled around to face it. 

In the deep darkness, a little girl with her mouth wide open and shimmering green eyes glowed like moonlight. Her tears dropped onto the pavement, and was crying contagious because he felt something wet lining his own eyes.

Her screams turned to words. "Help me, please! Please, help me, they're all gone! Help me!" Bruce looked between the circus and the girl, head splitting in two. She needed to be protected; he needed to protect her, but if he let the circus continue they'd all die. The circus wouldn't stop killing, he knew it wouldn't.

The girl, though, she looked so frightened. He couldn't let her suffer. Little kids shouldn't suffer. Someone should hold them close and tell them that their parents would be proud. They'd be so proud of him, that's what he needed to hear.

The choice tore at him, pulling him in both directions. What was he supposed to do? He'd always had help, always had Alfred to remind him of his moral compass. Where was Alfred? Why wasn't he here? The screams of girl and trumpet filled him up, and now was the time. One direction or the other, he had to choose.

As the sound beat against him, he made his decision. Bruce sprinted towards the circus, using his anger and fear to push him far from the cries of the little girl. The wind, like a physical embodiment of the violent music, sailed across his cheeks. Each step became more and more impossible until he was pushing as hard as he could just to stand. His strenth gave out, and the wind picked him up and threw him into the air.

The gales stopped, and he went limp in the blackened sky. The music returned to its fun tone, unnerving Bruce more than the mayhem had. As he tried and failed to move his legs, his head fell on his shoulders, and his arms swung lifelessly. Everything was numb. Oh god, everything was numb, and _he couldn't move_.

In a moment too quick to name, euphoric laughter replaced the tune.

The circus had arrived.

The laughter had two voices, alike yet polar opposites. One was a haughty chuckle vibrating around him. The other pierced the air with arcing giggles. They mixed in his ears, in his stomach, overwhelming every sensation until the only things left were the voices and the sight of his shoes floating.

Then his fingers twitched, and his arms and legs followed suit, invisible strings controlling him. His legs flew in sporadic patterns, tracing circles and squares and any number of shapes. Bruce was sure that if he could feel anything, pain would plow through him. He almost wished he could feel that pain rather than watching his arms _disco_. What kind of insanity would a person have to have to do this?

The voices stopped as he finished his thought. Bruce realized why immediately. They were offended. Offended. Despite being numb and lost, Bruce wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Two men, puppeting him around like a doll, were offended he dared call them insane. Gotham was falling to pieces around him. Or maybe it was always like that.

"Bruce? Bruce?" the chuckler asked, with a note of concern in his voice. "Bruce?"

" __Bruce!_ _"

Bruce banged his head against the desk as he woke up. The dream slipping out of his mind, he looked around. He'd fallen asleep in the middle of the GCPD precinct. Again.

Halfway across the busy room, Captain Gordon winced, one arm out-stretched towards something behind him. Shaking his head, Jim facepalmed. Disappointed, but not surprised. He made some complicated hand signals to whatever, or more likely whoever, was behind him. Well, where Jim went...

"Oh, uh, sorry kid."

Detective Harvey Bullock was not far behind.

Bruce twisted around, arms still resting on the desk, and faced the man who'd graciously waken him up. 

"It's no issue, Harvey. I should be awake anyways," Bruce said. A glance at Jim told him that Harvey would be getting a strong reprimand from him. He'd get it too, if he didn't leave soon. Bruce smiled at Harvey while wiping the sleep (and tears?) from his eyes. "You can tell Captain Gordon I said not to yell at you."

Climbing out of his chair, Bruce stretched and cleared his throat. "Again, thank you for waking me. There is work to be done, after all."

Harvey sucked in air through his teeth and breathed out puckered lips. "Ah, kid, you know I'm bad at this," he said, rubbing his chin. "But you really should get some more sleep. Jim's gettin' real worried 'bout—"

"I'm sorry I worry him, Detective, but I don't have the time to rest," Bruce said, the worry that haunted him returning full force. "It's been two weeks since Jeremiah cut us off from the mainland, and the government has still refused to make contact. If I don't help all those people out there, who will?"

Before Harvey could reply, Jim appeared and grabbed his shoulder with an exhausted smile. Bruce noticed how tightly he held on, though he undoubtedly wouldn't want Bruce to know how angry he was. Unfortunately for Jim, the eggshells he tried so hard not to break were scattered around him, clear as day.

"Good afternoon, Bruce. Don't you think you should—"

"Night," Harvey said, eyebrows furrowed.

"What?" Jim asked.

"Its night, Jim, not afternoon. 2 a.m."

Jim's jaw dropped. He spoke, deliberately slowing his words. "Harvey, how long have I been asleep?"

Harvey had the curtesy to look sheepish. "About 9 hours?"

"9 hours? 9 hours! Jesus Christ, Harvey, you let me sleep for _9 hours_ and wake the kid up the second you see him?" 

"Ah, Jim—"

Bruce sped out the precinct doors as Jim told Harvey exactly what he'd done wrong in more-than-colorful language.

He didn't flinch when cold wind danced across his skin. It felt natural, like jumping into a pool on a summer morning. Only, when Bruce wanted to get out, there would be no one to hand him a towel and tell him his strokes were getting better but could use improvement. He'd be alone, dripping, no warmth in sight.

There'd be no one to tell him to get over himself, to use some damn rags instead. He's smart, he's rich, he could do something. 

It wasn't their fault they weren't here for him. He'd sent Selina to the mainland. He couldn't let her stay in Gotham, not when Jeremiah could still hurt her. And there was no way he'd leave Selina by herself; no, Alfred had to leave too. The nearest thing to keeping his promise he could do.

Which left him with two friends far too busy to help him. Jim and Lucius fought every day for the innocents of the city, putting their lives at stake to bring in one more child. Their work was an important, and Bruce couldn't get in the way. He'd be putting his mission above rescuing people caught in the crosshairs of a cataclysm that he caused.

Bruce kicked a piece of trash into the road. He let this happen to the city his parents loved. The Valeska twins were geniuses and escape artists and Jeremiah never did anything he didnt want to. He should have jumped to discover Jeremiah's plans the moment he knew he was planning something. When Jeremiah let Alfred beat him half to death, Bruce feared what he'd do; he sent Selina away because the dread rooted so deep within him. Why hadn't he digged a little deeper before it was too late? 

A scream rang out in the air. A woman, mid-30s, alone. Not a death scream, a frightened scream. All his instincts pushed him forward without a moment's thought. Bruce began to run, to sprint, turning sharp corners right and left and right and forward and left again until he reached the source.

The moonlight barely lit the scene, reflections on metal his only guide. That's all he needed anyhow.

The woman kneeled, arms raised over her. She whimpered as the man above her sorted through what Bruce assumed to be her purse. He threw things every direction, not finding what he wanted. The hand holding the bag also gripped a knife wobbling with every move. 

Bruce looked around the area for a friend of the criminals. No one. He could act. This street stood outside the Green Zone limits but not by much. He'd bring her to the precinct and knock her assailant out cold.

Alfred would say, "Stop waiting around and do something. There's no time like the present, Master Bruce."

The shadows covered him as he creeped from the alley. He approached the criminal, step by step, until he could see the difference between the back of his shirt and his skin. A breath in, a breath out. _Attack_.

Bruce yanked the man's knife hand, twisting it behind his back. The man yowled, swinging wildly with his free hand as the knife skittered across the ground.

He flipped him around. A kick to the stomach, and the man doubled over. Bruce grabbed his neck, pulling him up and pushing him against the wall.

He drew back a punch, ready for the final blow when he noticed the man's face. He wore makeup.

Clown makeup.

"Go," Bruce rumbled at the woman. The man murmured something, and Bruce slammed his head against the wall.

He looked at the woman. From this angle, he could see her perfectly. Tears ran down her face, mixing with dirt and filth. Her lips quivered. She looked seconds away from sobbing.

"Run," he roared, pointing in the direction of the precinct. Hopefully she'd find her way there.

The woman scrambled to her feet and ran down the alley he came from.

Bruce returned to the man in front of him. This was a link to Jeremiah, someone who must have been part of Jerome's cult. He'd get to Jeremiah. He'd see him again. He'd find out his plans and stop him before more people get hurt. His mission. This man was his mission.

"Where's Jeremiah Valeska?" he asked, teeth gritted, eyes focused.

"What?"

" _Where's Jeremiah Valeska?_ " he shouted, everything pounding loud and hard and fast.

The man shook his head, eyes wide open and terrified. "I don't know, man! No one's seen that guy for weeks."

Damn it.

Not again.

Bruce knocked the man out and went back on patrol. Later, he would ask Jim if a woman had come into the precinct. He would say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!!! How'd you all like it? Writing it was a god damn struggle, and some parts I definitely don't like (I can't write tension for shit, oOps), but I still love it. I wrote probably half of it in the last week or so, and the grind was real. 
> 
> Tell me what y'all think! Did you like the seXuAl tEnsioN? What are your thoughts on Sykes? What do you think the next step in Jeremiah's big bad plan to bruce's heart is? Do y'all like Jerome's big new secret that even y'all don't know? Bruce??? Kudos, comments, I love them all. Do not hesitate to tell me what I did wrong (I want to make a better product for you)! Thanks! 
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr @hornsorhalos


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